The Breaking Point
by Rosethorn18
Summary: A young forensic pathologist has moved in with eccentric detective Sherlock Holmes after his dear friend John Watson leaves him to get married. Takes place in the nine month gap between The Empty Hearse and The Sign of Three. Spoilers, of course. Feel free to review :)
1. Chapter 1: A Strange Meeting

I guess I should begin by explaining who I am. My name is Lily Anne Wilson, currently living in London, England. It feels weird typing that, as I'm still getting used to the idea. I moved here from Wyoming, USA to go to King's College, London to study medicine. University started off a bit rough, as I was scared to speak in case my accent sounded stupid or I used the wrong word for something. It did get better though, as I made a few friends who informed me that I didn't sound stupid, just different. Besides, it's not like I was the only foreign medical student. Well, I don't know if what I do is technically considered medicine, as I'm not really making people better. I'm in my third year of residency as a forensic pathologist, which means I deal with cadavers. I work at St Bartholomew's Hospital under the guidance of Molly Hooper. She intimidated me a lot a first, but as I found out, she's really quite nice and helpful. I watch her work, hand her things, and perform small tasks on the cadavers. We are on fairly friendly terms. Well, that's enough about me for now.

It was last Tuesday, I recall, when I first met the strange man. The morning had been rather slow, so I was just talking to Molly. I'd had a falling-out with my flatmate (I'll explain later) and now had only a few days to find a new place to live. Well, a place to live AND someone to split the rent with. Then, suddenly, this rather odd person appeared. He was rather tall and thin with dark curly hair, and wore an enormous black coat. He would have been quite handsome, if not for my first thought upon seeing him: gay as hell. Before you start accusing me of making assumptions, he didn't even subconsciously "check out" me or Molly. While I'm admittedly average-looking, Molly is quite pretty. So when he gave her no more than a friendly smile, I knew what was up. He had a bag of what looked like human hair and just walked straight to the lab. I raised my eyebrows at Molly and she mouthed "I'll explain later" before following him. I also went into the lab, finding them fairly deep in conversation, while he was hunched over a lab table.

"So how's the search going, Sherlock?" Molly asked the strange man.

"Not well. Everyone is just so dull, I couldn't stand to be in the same room with them for more than five minutes, much less live with them."

"Have you asked John for help?"

"He sits in on the interviews to stop me from being, as he puts it, 'a right arsehole'. I can't afford the rent on my own since he's so selfishly abandoned me, so I really need to find someone soon."

"Selfishly. Coming from a man who faked his death for two years."

"That's different; it was for a case! Not _getting married_. Who the hell are you?" he asked, noticing me for the first time, "A lab assistant, under considerable stress, clear emotional trauma, owns an orange cat."

"I'm Lily Wilson, and I'm a resident forensic pathologist, thanks all the same. And it's my ex-flatmate's cat, not mine."

"What are you doing here?"

"It's not every day that a total stranger walks into the lab with a bag full of human hair."

"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. The hair is from Jane Starling, a recently discovered corpse. I'm finding out what she was doing before she was shot."

"Drinking, clearly. You can smell the vodka on the hair."

"Anything not completely obvious?"

I walked to the table where he had the hair out and examined the hair closely. I felt the hair and found it to be almost wet to the touch with some type of gel.

"Petroleum jelly? Why would that be in her hair?"

"Excellent. As to why it would be there, I have several theories, but I have to wait until _tomorrow_ to see how the chemical tests have reacted with her hair," he sighed dramatically.

"Rather impatient, aren't you?"

"Waiting is incredibly boring."

I agreed and Molly, who I had forgotten was even there, finally spoke up.

"You know, Sherlock, Lily was just saying how she's looking for a place to live." He raised his eyebrows at me.

"Really?"

"Yeah, my old flatmate and I, well, the situation got bad. I've got a couple of days to leave, as the rent at this hotel I've been living in since I left got to be too much."

"You left because they hurt you."

"Yeah. I left last week."

"Why don't you come around to the flat tomorrow? The address is 221b, Baker Street." With that, he jumped up, swept on his coat, and left.

"Lucky girl," lamented Molly, "I've always sort of fancied him."

I left the lab that night with the hope that tomorrow, my situation might be improved.


	2. Chapter 2: Baker Street

The next morning, I woke up in my room at 5:30 am. Sounds early, but that's the time I always get up to go to hospital. My "shift" is supposed to be from seven a.m. to five p.m., but I rarely stick to that schedule as I'm always on call. Seriously, they can call me to the hospital at any hour of the day or night. This might be a problem to a watch-the-clock kind of a person, but it suits me. The work is my entire life; I don't really have anywhere else to be. On a rare occasion, I'll meet up with university friends for drinks, but they're just as busy as I am with their residencies. So I work.

I showered and dressed in my usual loose pants, comfy blouse, and converse. Before you judge me for dressing so casually, my job requires me to be on my feet, bending over a cadaver or lab samples. So comfort is of the essence. I pulled my hair back into my usual functional bun, swept on some mascara, and left my room. With purse, a muffin, and name badge in hand, I hailed a cab to St. Bart's.

I went down to the morgue, where I found Molly examining a corpse with a badly rotted face.

"What's going on with her?" I asked her.

"Female, late twenties. She was pulled out of the Thames this morning, but she didn't drown. She's been dead for about a week, judging by the rotting and rigor mortis. Notice the ligature marks around her neck; she was strangled with an electrical cord. We're running hair and tissue samples right now, and checking her dental records. DI Lestrade has a team working on missing person reports, so hopefully we'll find out who she was without having to call in Sherlock."

"Why him, just out of curiosity?"

"Didn't you hear him say he was a consulting detective?"

"Never heard of one of those before."

"That's because he made up the title. If a case interests him, he'll assist and advise the police." She began an incision on the stomach.

"Why does he do it?"

"Says he gets bored. He's so smart."

We continued examining the corpse in silence. Besides the ligature marks, she suffered blunt instrument trauma to the back of the head. Curiously, we also found that she had been stabbed six times on the right side with a thin, sharp blade and shot twice in the chest. However, both bullets had passed through her and out her back. From the holes and powder marks, we could tell the gun's caliber was small and she was shot at point-blank range.

"Wow," I said, "whoever did this really wanted her dead."

"It really is a lot of effort to go to for one person." We stitched her chest together and another resident wheeled her back to the cold room.

As we finished, two porters wheeled in a gurney with a body on. They lifted the corpse onto another lab table.

"What's the situation?" asked Molly.

"This woman was found dead in an alleyway about an hour ago. She's not been dead long," the taller one answered. Then, they departed.

"Well, Lily, let's get her laid out." We undressed the corpse and laid her out on the table. The porter was right as she couldn't have been dead more than an hour. Rigor mortis hadn't even begun to set in yet. She looked oddly… familiar. Not that I'd seen her, but that I'd seen someone similar.

"Molly, get the other corpse back out here."

"Why?"

"Look at her neck and side. She has the exact same wounds as the other one. Two bullet holes to the chest as well. If we turned her over, I think we'd find blunt instrument trauma to the back of the head." We turned over the cadaver, and sure enough, there was trauma from a single blow to the back of the head, as well as two exit wounds. Coincidentally, she also was a brunette who appeared to be in her late twenties. Molly called the resident to bring the rotted corpse back out, and when we compared the two, they were essentially the same.

"What's the betting that the same person did this?"

"Let's just send hair and tissue samples to the lab. Though with this one, she should be quite a bit easier to identify, as her face isn't mangled or rotted. Let's finish the autopsy now." We worked in near silence, making incisions, weighing her organs, the like. Hours later, we sewed her back up and wheeled the body to the morgue. We concluded that it was the blow that killed her, with the strangulation, shooting and stabbing happening later, having also reached the same conclusion with the rotted woman. By now it was five pm, and along with being really hungry, I had also agreed to meet Sherlock at his flat.

"Do you mind if I take off? I'm supposed to be meeting Sherlock tonight."

"Go ahead, we're pretty much done here for now anyway. We should have the hair and tissue analyses from the cadavers either very late tonight or early tomorrow morning. We'll call you if anything new develops before then."

I grabbed my things, put my now soiled coat into the hospital laundry, and left the hospital. I called another cab and told him the address. As we arrived, I noted that it was a fairly good neighborhood. I knocked on the front door (the knocker was askew, but I didn't change it) and it was opened by an older woman.

"Hello, who might you be?"

"Lily Wilson. I'm here about the flat."

"Oh yes, John did mention someone was coming to be interviewed. They're right upstairs, dear."

I ascended the narrow staircase to find myself by a green door. I took a deep breath and knocked. The man who answered was rather short with grayish blonde hair. He bore himself like a soldier, but he had kind eyes. I took this to be the mysterious John.

"You must be the girl Sherlock mentioned was coming to see about the flat. Come in."

He led me into a spacious but cluttered living room. The room was covered in books, papers, knick-knacks, and tea cups. The effect was actually quite cozy. Sherlock was already seated in one of the two stuffed armchairs and John gestured me to a plain wooden chair while he took the other one.

"Tell us about yourself. Sherlock, keep your mouth shut while she talks." The two clearly shared a close friendship.

"Well, I'm a third-year residential forensic pathologist. Um, I work at St. Bart's hospital."

"Any interesting corpses?" Sherlock asked.

"Actually, today we had two, one arriving after a week in the Thames, the other killed this morning. Both had identical head trauma, bullet wounds, stab wounds, and ligature marks."

"Were they connected?"

"As far as we can tell, no. But the police are working on it."

"Idiots. Why didn't they call me?"

"Molly said you only take certain cases. They probably thought it wasn't enough for you."

"A double homicide? It's like Christmas!"

At this, John looked at me with a bit of concern, as if Sherlock's exclamation might have freaked me out.

"Sherlock, we'll look into it tomorrow. Now, Lily, was it? Any interests, hobbies?"

"Most of my time is spent working, but I also read a great deal. I usually don't tell people this, but I have an encyclopedic knowledge of serial killers and unsolved murders. A bit of a gruesome fascination of mine."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, "The Black Dahlia murder."

"The murder of Elizabeth Short, an American woman in 1947 Los Angeles, California. She was found sliced in half at the waist, completely drained of blood, with her intestines tucked neatly under her. Her mouth was split open into a grotesque smile. Unsolved."

"Doctor Harold Shipman."

"British doctor convicted of murdering 15 patients with diamorphine. Has at least 250 murders attributed to him. Convicted in 2000, hung himself in his cell in 2004."

"Excellent," Sherlock said.

"Okay," John said, "Are you a neat freak? Cuz he's a total wreck, as you can tell by the state of this place."

"I'm not overly neat, no. I used to drive my roommates at university insane. Anyway, it feels cozy in here."

"Are you bothered by finding, oh I don't know, body parts in the kitchen?" John continued.

"I work with corpses all day. Nothing really fazes me anymore."

"Any annoying people I should know about?" Sherlock asked in a bored voice.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't be stupid. Friends, relationships, irritating relatives."

"My entire life is dedicated to my work, so I don't have the time or energy to keep up a relationship. My family lives in America, and I don't have many friends. I go out with those ones maybe once a month."

"You drink, but don't smoke often," Sherlock said.

"Yes, but how do you know-"

"Your eyes are bloodshot today as they were yesterday, the sign of a heavy drinker. You don't have the wrinkle on your upper lip that heavy smokers have, but your fingers are stained with nicotine. You only smoke when you're stressed, so clearly you've been chain-smoking since you left your old flat."

"Brilliant. Does drinking bother you?" I asked him. I was a bit worried as I had no other real prospects.

"No."

"Ok then."

"So Sherlock," John finally spoke, "what do you think?"

"She'll do just fine. You can move in tomorrow," he said to me.

I got up, shook their hands and got ready to leave.

"I'll walk you out," John said. Leaving Sherlock in his chair, we left the flat. He started talking the minute the door closed.

"Why are you here, really?"

"It's a decent price and I desperately need somewhere to live."

"Why Sherlock? What do you want with him?"

"Calm down. I just need a flatmate and he's convenient. Why are _you_ leaving, if you don't mind me asking? Is there something wrong with him?"

"I'm getting married, actually. And yeah, there's something wrong with him. He claims to be a sociopath, but I don't think that's true. If anything, he has Asperger's."

"You two have been together for a long time, haven't you?"

"We're _not _together. But yeah, we've been friends for ages."

"Just moved out then?"

"No, I moved out two years ago. The bloody prick made me think he's been dead for that long. He just got back a few weeks ago."

"Why would he do that?"

"Short version: a criminal made him do it or all his friends, myself included, would be shot."

"Other than criminals showing up, is there anything I should know?"

"He sleeps really late, has science experiments everywhere, plays the violin at three in the morning, and occasionally shoots the wall when he gets bored."  
"I can deal with that."

We had made it out the outside door.

"Goodbye then. I'm glad you're here; he gets in trouble if he's left all alone."

"Nice to meet you."

He went back into the building, closing the door behind him. I walked over to the adjacent café and got a coffee and some chips. After putting vinegar and salt on them, I went back outside and hailed another cab. As I traveled back to my hotel, I again wondered about this strange situation I had gotten myself into.


	3. Chapter 3: Flatmates

I packed up my things the very next morning, and called a cab to take me to Baker Street. I had already asked Molly if I could show up a half hour later than usual, which she agreed on. I only had a few boxes and cases, but John, who for some reason was there, insisted on helping me. We took the boxes upstairs, to the floor above the main room, where I found a nice bedroom with a bathroom attached. The bedroom was plainly furnished, with a bed, bookshelf, bureau and closet, and night table. Once I had put out my possessions, it would be very nice indeed. And having a separate bathroom would be lovely, as I don't exactly like having my things touched.

"Where's Sherlock?" I asked John once we had the boxes upstairs.

"I dunno, sleeping, I guess. He sleeps until noon most days and is usually out at night working on cases; you really won't see much of him. He asked me to be here early for some reason, so here I am."

"Speaking of being out, I'd better shower and get going to the lab. It was nice to see you again."

"Well, I'll leave you to it then. Hey, before I do, here's my mobile number. Seriously, call or text if there's something wrong with him." He handed me a piece of paper with a phone number on it. I raised my brows at his obvious concern.

"You worry about him a lot."

"Somebody has to. Well, I'd better go and see what he wants then. Bye." He walked out of the room and I heard him go down the stairs into the main room. I locked my door and picked out my usual comfortable outfit, this time adding my black coat as it had been really cold that morning. I stripped off my "home clothes" (hey, I knew I'd be showering when I got to the flat) and walked into the bathroom, which was actually really clean. I turned on the shower and stepped inside.

As I washed my hair, all I could think was how quickly things were moving for me now. Within just two weeks, I had moved out, lived in a hotel, and found a new place to live. Then suddenly it hit me: I was showering in the house of a total stranger. Oh my fucking god, I moved in with someone I seriously just met. He could be a perv (which I doubted based on his reaction to Molly) or a murderer or a drug kingpin and I had no idea! What had I gotten myself into?

I finished showering quickly, and then jumped out and speed-dried myself off. I walked back into my bedroom and dressed at top speed (both because I'm paranoid and that if I didn't hurry, I'd be late). I yanked back my hair, grabbed my purse (along with new keys and phone), and dashed down the stairs. As I went out the door onto the street, my phone _ding_ed to signal that I was getting a text.

Come to the hospital right now. There's another body and the others' test results are back.

-Molly

Shit, no time to get to the Tube station then. I really hated to spend more money on a cab, but I had no choice. I hailed one and told the cabbie to get me to the hospital as fast as he could, which he actually did. I paid him and sprinted inside and down to the morgue, where I found Molly, several police officers, and, to my surprise, Sherlock and John. Sherlock was bent over this new cadaver while John took notes. Molly pulled me over to where she was talking to a gray-haired man who was clearly in charge.

"Lilly, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Lestrade, she was the one who noticed the parallel between the first two corpses."

"Nice to meet you. Since this new corpse I like the others, we're official ruling that we have a serial killer on our hands. All three have both the same injuries and the same physical appearance."

"He definitely has a type." Lestrade studied me closely at my words.

"Why do you say 'he'?"

"The first two died from blunt force trauma to the back of the head. To form those injuries, the killer would either have to be a man or a really strong woman. I'm thinking man. Molly, how did this last one die?"

"Like the others, hit once with a very heavy object on the back of the head. She's right, Greg."

"That's not enough proof."

A lab technician handed Molly a folder containing what I presumed to be the lab results.

"Is this enough? All three victims' tissue samples showed that they were heavily sedated with rohypnol and had alcohol in their systems."

"You tested the new one already?" I asked Molly.

"She was found in an empty lot around ten last night. I was in here running the tests on the other samples already, so I just tested her as well."

"Rohypnol?" Lestade asked.

"Yeah, roofies?" Molly replied.

"I know what it is!" he said, then, addressing the group of officers, "We're looking for a man, fairly large, with access to rohypnol."

"Wrong!" Sherlock shouted from the back.

"What is it, Freak?" the sergeant asked.

"It's not a man at all. Look, she has no sign of sexual assault." He just sounded so smug that I immediately wanted to punch him. Instead, though, I shouted back to him.

"That doesn't mean anything, you bleeding idiot! Have you considered he just used the drug so they couldn't fight back when he killed them? There're no self-defense wounds on her hands, nor any of the others. I'm thinking he drugged them and used their slow reaction time to his advantage. Have you thought of _that_, you utter fucking walnut?"

At the expressions on everyone's faces I shut up. Molly just sort of stared at me, the cops looked surprised and pleased, John was giggling, and Sherlock looked mortified.

"No, I guess I didn't think of that. I'll just… look some more…" Sherlock bent back over the corpse. Mentally, I was punching myself. Did I seriously just insult the person I would be sleeping under the same roof as? A man with a love for murder and sociopathic (according to him) tendencies? I made a mental not to ensure that my door was locked at night. I really didn't need another bad situation with a flatmate. It was Lestrade who finally broke the tension.

"Alright, we're still looking for a big man with access to sedatives. We'd better get back to the station." With that, the officers left. Molly and I went back to the autopsy room, where Sherlock and John were still examining the cadaver. Since I really don't want to be murdered in my sleep, I thought an apology would be in order.

"Listen, Sherlock, I'm sorry for yelling at you in front of everyone. And for calling you an idiot. That was out of line."

"How did I miss that when an ORDINARY person caught it?" He sounded angrier at himself than anyone else. John continued chuckling to himself. I assumed that he didn't really mean any harm by calling me ordinary.

"Sherlock, are you almost finished here? We need to perform the full autopsy," Molly said.

"I think I've seen enough. Four ideas so far; I need to think." He grabbed his long coat and ran out the door. John took a minute later grabbing his coat.

"Nobody ever tells him when he's wrong or being a dick. You're going to be good for him to live with, I can tell." Then he followed Sherlock out the door.

Molly and I put on our lab coats and gloves and started cutting open the corpse. No obvious internal damage was apparent. Also, she had the exact physical description of the other two corpses, with brown hair and almost matching height and measurements. This serial killer certainly had a type. We stitched her back up and Molly told me to take off until there were further developments. I took off my coat and gloves, put them in the laundry, and put on my regular coat. I got on the Tube and rode the short distance back to Baker Street. I went into the flat and up to my rooms, where I began to unpack my stuff. I put my clothes away, my books on the shelf, and my ceramic cat on my night table. I set up my alarm clock and my lamp as well as putting down my multicolored rugs on the hardwood floor. I finished putting away my other things (it was fairly late at night by this point) and, since I had time on my hands, went down to explore the main room of the flat.

It was pretty much exactly how I had seen it the day before. The cozy, cluttered main room led off to a fairly nice kitchen and a hallway lead to Sherlock's room and bathroom. I examined the walls of the main room. One was decorated with a smiley face, bullet holes, and a poster of a skull. On the opposite wall was a nice fireplace, roaring with flame, with a skull sitting on the mantle and an overstuffed bookshelf. Most, if not all, of his books were about murder. I really wasn't surprised by this. I spotted a nice book about some person's Jack the Ripper theory. Thinking it might be worth a read, I started to take it from the shelf when I heard a voice behind me.

"Your old flatmate, what did he do to you?" It was Sherlock, to my great relief.

"None of your business," I automatically replied.

"Why don't you sit down?" he gestured to one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace. I sat in it while he took the other. "I want to know why you flinched when you shook both John and Lestrade's hands. What. Did. He. Do?"

"Fine then! He was a mean bastard but I didn't have anywhere else to go. He used to look in on me in the shower, and I think he might have taken pictures, but I was desperate for a place. The night I left was the last straw. I was in my room, reading in bed. He comes in, clearly high off his ass, and _springs _at me. He ripped at my clothes, but I managed to push him off. I grabbed shoes and a coat and ran out of the flat. I checked into the hotel that I've been staying at. The next day when I knew he'd be at work I went back to the flat, packed up all of my stuff, and left a note saying I was leaving. I shouldn't have trusted him. Hell, why am I trusting you?"

"Because you don't think I'm going to hurt you," he replied after a pause.

"Yeah, I guess so. But I could be wrong. _He _was the first person I've trusted since I was fifteen, and look how that turned out. Well, it's getting really late; I think I'll go to bed. Goodnight."

He didn't respond, just stared endlessly into the fire. I left the room, but not before I thought I heard him quietly say, "I don't trust people either." I probably misheard him, so I ascended the stairs up to my room.

I went in and locked the door behind me. I still didn't full trust him not to hurt me in the middle of the night. I crawled into bed and fell asleep for the first time in my new home at Baker Street.


	4. Chapter 4: The Worst Night

I woke at three a.m. to the sound of a violin being played downstairs. As I had been living with Sherlock for a couple of weeks, I was used to his episodes. He had been getting increasingly frustrated with the case as it progressed, for nothing could really be solved until the first victim was identified. Her face was so badly rotted that she would be difficult to recognize, and the missing persons reports for that week were staggering. Lestrade and his team were still pouring over the records, hoping to identify her.

Sherlock needed a connection between the victims besides their appearances. He deduced that they must have been in some sort of club in their last hours, both because of their clothes and the still visible stamps on their hands. All three also had high levels of alcohol in their systems. However, London has A LOT of clubs in the wide area where the two latter victims lived, and it would be impossible to figure out which one without going to each one and looking for a man slipping drugs into girls' drinks. The identification of the first corpse would narrow down the area considerably. The case was driving him insane, so I decided to go down and check up on him.

I grabbed my dressing gown and slippers and walked quietly down the stairs. The violin stopped for a moment, then continued. I went into the main room, where a horrible sight met my eyes.

Sherlock wasn't playing at all. Rather, he had an Ipod playing classical music. He was sitting in his armchair with an empty tumbler of and a half-full bottle of scotch on the table next to him. I ran over to him and saw that his face was still and tear-stained (with blue lips) and his breathing was shallow. I turned over his wrist and took his pulse, which was very weak. I noticed a small cut on the bend of his elbow (his sleeve was rolled up) and a belt tightly around his forearm. Then, realization dawned on me as I saw a spoon, small, empty bag, and needle on the ground. I dashed from the room and ran back up to my room, where I ripped my phone from the charger and dialed John's number with a shaking hand. I sped back down to where Sherlock was as the phone continued to ring.

"Pick up, you bastard…." I muttered to myself as I turned his head so if he threw up, he wouldn't suffocate. On the sixth ring, he finally answered.

"Hello?" John said in a bleary voice.

"It's Lily. Sherlock's hurt; I think it's a heroin overdose. Please, go to the hospital."

"Oh my God! I'll be there in a few minutes." He hung up and I dialed 999.

"What's your emergency?" the calm voice on the other end

"Heroin overdose. 221B Baker Street. Please hurry, I don't think he has much time left."

"Stay calm. Get them down to street level of the house if possible. We'll be there soon."

I ended the call. Okay, stay calm. First problem: getting him down the stairs. Thanking God that he was a relatively light man, I put his arm around my shoulder and lifted him on my back. I struggled and nearly dropped him a couple times, but eventually I got him down the stairs. I turned him on his side again, then sprinted upstairs to grab my coat, shoes, and bag. Now, all I could do was wait for the paramedics. Fortunately, they were there and loading him on a stretcher within a few minutes. I did actually ride with them while they questioned me.

"Name and age, please."

"Sherlock Holmes, um, around thirty-five if I had to guess. I don't really know, I've only lived with him for a few weeks and he never said."

"How long between when you last spoke with him and finding him?"

"I went to bed around midnight and found him at three."

"How long has the drug been in his system?"

"I'd say no more than an hour."

"Good; he has a fighting chance. Thank you."

They stopped questioning me after that. We got to St. Bart's soon after that and they took him to the Emergency Room. I didn't go in. Instead, I sat away from the hospital on the curb, where I smoked cigarette after cigarette. That's where John found me an hour later.

"He's going to be fine, you know. He's out of the emergency room and in the ICU right now. It's good that you found him when you did or he would have OD'd and died. You okay?"

"Not really, no. My God, if I hadn't come downstairs…"

"What made you, by the way?"

"The violin. Usually it wakes me up, I ignore it and go back to sleep. But it sounded different, so I thought something might be wrong. Good thing, huh?"

"Thanks for calling me. I hated doing it, but I called his brother."

"He has a brother?"

"Yeah, Mycroft, who's an even bigger arrogant arse than Sherlock. They don't get along. That's him over there," he said, gesturing to a tall, powerfully built man with an umbrella, "he should be coming over to bother you in a minute."

Sure enough, Mycroft walked over to where I was sitting. John left, which made me a bit angry.

"So you're the one who found him."

"Yeah, so?"

"Why were you there?" he asked in a suspicious tone.

"I bloody well live there, don't I?"

"Since when?"

"Since I moved in a couple weeks ago. You're his brother, has he done this before?"

"The last time was six years ago. I see you're smoking. Did you introduce him back to _that _as well?"

"You seriously think I'm a junkie, or that I'd encourage one? I didn't _introduce _him to anything; he did that on his own. Probably from having such a massive twat as a brother!"

"You want to be careful with what you say to me, or you might find yourself in prison or at the bottom of the Thames."

Disgusted, I didn't say another word to him, just put out my cigarette and went into the hospital, to the ICU. I asked at the desk what room Sherlock was in.

"Sorry, miss, immediate family only."

"I'm his sister," I lied. I hate lying to people, particularly someone who works in the same place as me, but I needed to make sure he was alright.

"Room 322, just down that hallway, first door on the right." I went to where I was directed, and opened his door. I found him awake and sitting up and reading a book on Victorian crime. He looked up from his book.

"Hello," he said.

"Are you a complete idiot? You could've died!"

"Good to see you too. Why are you here?"

"I had to make sure you were okay. Wanted to make sure I wasn't too late getting to you."

"Yes, thank you for that. But why was John at the flat at three in the morning? You aren't…." he trailed off.

"No, of course not; romance isn't exactly my area of expertise. He wasn't there at all."

"Yes, he was. Of course he was. How else did I get out of the flat and down the stairs? How else is he here right now?"

"I called him and told him to come to the hospital. I carried you down the stairs."

"How?"

"Lifted you on my back, of course; I hate to break it to you, but you're not exactly heavy. I nearly dropped you on your massive, stupid head a couple of times, though."

He took a deep breath.

"You've been smoking."

"Yeah."

"You only smoke when you're nervous."

"I thought you'd die and that serial killer would never be caught." He looked relieved, but also saddened for a moment. I couldn't imagine why.

"Yes, that. I have the name of the club where the victims were."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"The first victim, of course. I remembered some lady coming in asking me to find her daughter last month. It just seemed boring, but it stuck with me. I tracked down the client and asked her for a photo of the woman. I also found out her name and address. The club had to be just high-end enough for the victims without being out of their class. The club also had to between their homes. That narrowed it down to two clubs, The Blue Moon and Liquid. I've been going to The Blue Moon every night, trying to find the man who fit the description."

"Brilliant. Why The Blue Moon and not Liquid?"

"Liquid's a gay bar. All of the victims' acquaintances have confirmed they're straight."

"Have you shared this with, I don't know, the police?"

"I don't tell them until I've solved the case. How soon can I leave?"

"You OD'd on heroin. Yeah, you're not going anywhere for at least a few days."

He groaned.

"How boring."

We were interrupted by Molly.

"Lily, I thought you might be up here. There's another body." Sherlock looked at her with excitement.

"No, _you_ have to stay up here. Lily, I know you're tired, but come with me." We left Sherlock to sulk alone. We went all the way down to the morgue, where we found yet another cadaver waiting for us.

She was exactly the same as the other three. Same wounds, same appearance, everything.

"Jennifer Michaels, age 25, found dead in an empty building by a squatter ten minutes ago."

"Let me guess: she lives in the same area as the others."

"Within a few blocks of Victim 3."

"And by The Blue Moon," said a familiar voice behind us. I rolled my eyes and turned to find Sherlock.

"Sherlock, go back to your room. I don't know how you got out, but just go back." He huffed at my words, but I guess the look in my eye told him I was serious. He stalked out of the room, muttering about me oppressing his intellect.

"He must like you a lot. He usually ignores everyone who tries to tell him what to do."

"It's for his own good and he knows it. I guess he trusts us to be able to handle this."

Molly shrugged. The corpse didn't need much more examination, so we wheeled it back to the morgue.

"I want you to go home, get some sleep, and eat something okay? You look like you've been hit by a bus," Molly firmly said to me. I yawned; I hadn't realized how tired I really was. I grabbed my stuff and went outside. Mycroft was still out there, so I had to ask him the question that had been bugging me.

"Why did he do it?" He looked at me curiously.

"Why does anyone do anything? He gets bored." Mycroft turned and walked away without another word.

I hailed a cab to take me home to Baker Street, where I went into the café, bought chips, and went into the flat. After pouring myself a glass of red wine, I sat at the table and ate in silence. Soon, another glass. And another and another until I had finished half the bottle. Now, it took all my strength to stumble up to my room and collapse into bed. I lay there for a few minutes before swirling into darkness.


	5. Chapter 5: Petrichor

Sherlock came home from the hospital three days later. He wanted to get back on the case straight away, but I made him promise me something first: that he'd stay off the drug, at least until the case was finished. In return, I'd allow him to fully examine all of the cadavers. He agreed to my terms, and we got on much better after that.

Luckily, Lestrade continued to let him work on the case. He did warn Sherlock, however, that if he didn't stay clean, he wouldn't listen to him anymore; the word of a strung-out junkie, as he put it, doesn't hold up well in court. The word of a sober, internationally recognized detective, however, is worth more than gold. So Sherlock stopped. I'm not going to lie, he was an unpleasant arsehole the first week or so of sobriety. But he continued to work at the case, and eventually that kept him distracted from withdrawal. He even started asking for my input on things, if only to serve as a "wrong answer" board for him to bounce his insights off. Which tended to get annoying, but when I told him so, he just looked at me in shock and said

"John doesn't mind."

"Well, I'm not John. Speaking of which, where _is _he, anyway? Don't you usually work together?"

"He abandoned me to go do stupid wedding business or something, I really don't know. I just sort of zone out when he talks sometimes."

"He didn't abandon you; you're being overdramatic."

"No I'm not." I just gave him an exasperated look and he turned back to the wall.

He had decorated the bullet-marred wall of the main room with anything he could find on the case, including a map of where the victims lived. The Blue Moon was almost directly in the middle of the area. Sherlock deduced that only locals would go to the club, so the killer must live in the area. He found all the single men (not married, he wouldn't be out every night if he had someone) within walking distance of the club, then narrowed it down further by physical strength, as one would need a great deal of it to kill someone by hitting them a single time, age, and relative attractiveness (the women had let him buy the drinks that would be their last). At last, after working for weeks, he came up with a name: Leo Waters, an ex-Naval officer with a history of insomnia. He could easily get the rohypnol with a prescription and lived in a flat two streets away from the Blue Moon. He was only a year out of the military, with an honorable discharge for a leg injury that never quite healed. He could get around without a lot of difficulty, judging by the distance from both his flat to the club, and the club to the dumping sites for the bodies.

Now, the real question was how to catch him. He could explain away the rohypnol and he could be going to the Blue Moon just to have fun. He could claim to be trying to find love, which was plausible for a freshly-discharged lonely sailor. The only way to trap him would be in the act, unfortunately resulting in another dead woman. That was where Sherlock was really stuck, which made him increasingly frustrated and agitated to the point where it was rare to not hear his violin being played furiously.

One Friday night, I decided to go out. I hadn't gone out at night since I moved to Baker Street almost two months previously. I took special care getting ready. I showered, then blow-dried and curled my long brown hair. After carefully applying makeup and putting on silver hoop earrings with a matching necklace and bracelets, I slipped into my blue cocktail dress and silver stilettos. I took one look in the mirror and shuddered; I looked alien. But it didn't matter what I thought I looked like tonight. I sprayed myself with my lavender perfume, then grabbed my wallet and phone and went downstairs. Sherlock was standing in front of the wall as usual, just staring at it. He turned around as I walked through the room towards the door.

"You're going out."

"Yeah, what of it?"

"You never go out."

"Maybe I just feel like it tonight." He gave me a sharp, suspicious look, then shrugged and went back to studying the wall. I left the flat and went down to the street, where I hailed a cab. I got in and the cabbie said

"Where to?"

"The Blue Moon club," I answered him. If Sherlock wasn't going to find this guy, I needed to before another woman died. When we were about a block away, I asked him to stop and got out. I knew the guy had to be watching the front of the club for a woman arriving alone who lived within apparent walking distance. I'm several years older and a bit taller and heavier than the victims, but I was hoping that in the dark of the club, Waters wouldn't realize.

After paying my fee, I went into the club. It was like any moderately high-end club, with a bar, dance floor, and tables around the edges. Luckily, it was fairly dimly lit and was already drawing a crowd. He would be here already, I had decided; he'd be looking for a certain type of woman and wouldn't want to miss her. I went over to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic, then picked a table to wait at in one of the farther corners. I set the drink on the chair next to mine without touching a drop. Then, I saw Leo Waters approaching me from across the dance floor.

Even being a year out of the Navy, he looked just like his photograph. He was taller than Sherlock, which was saying a lot, and still bore himself like a soldier, albeit with a slight limp. This wasn't uncommon, as John had been discharged for several years and still had the bearing of a military man. But this man's dark hair was still kept very short; old habits are hard to break. He drew closer to my table.

"Can I buy you a drink, sweetheart?" That was quick. I'd expected him to take longer, but it was clear that he'd found what he was looking for early into the night. There was really no timescale for when he picked his victims, as all were killed at different times.

"Yeah, a G & T," I replied, trying to be flirtatious. God, was I out of practice. But he took the hint and went to the bar. He came back with a pint for himself and a G & T for me, as requested. He set down the drinks on the table and as he glanced away for a moment to pull his chair out to sit down, I quickly switched out the spiked drink he had bought me or the clean one I had ordered before. He didn't even blink an eye; I breathed a sigh of relief as my ruse had worked. Now came the difficult part: pretending like the drug was working.

I sipped my drink slowly, and Waters didn't even touch his as he watched me and made light conversation. Luckily, I have a very high tolerance for alcohol, so the drink itself didn't really affect me. But Waters didn't know that, so I proceeded to giggle, flirt, and put my hands on him. After a few minutes of this, I pretended that the rohypnol was kicking in. I let him lead me, leaning heavily on him, past the dance floor and out the back door of the club, to a dark and dingy alleyway. _Shit, _I thought, _what now? _

I heard a sound behind me and turned. Waters had picked up a metal cylinder, a piece of old pipe. Well, that's what it _looked _like. I couldn't really tell in the darkness. He drew closer to me and raised the pipe. Well, that was it. I was going to die alone in a filthy alley. Suddenly, Waters' eyes went wide with shock and he dropped to the ground like a sack of flour, the pipe dimly clanging as it rolled away. I wasn't surprised to see Sherlock standing above him with a metal ball in his hand. He dropped it and walked past me without so much as a glance. I stooped down and took Waters' pulse, which was still steady. Good, he wasn't dead, just knocked out.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted someone. A few minutes later, the police showed up and took Waters away, leaving us alone (Sherlock had declined to go with them to interrogate Waters).

"Baker Street. Now," he said to me in a clipped tone, his expression unreadable. He strode out of the alley without another word and I followed him, making sure that I still had my wallet and phone. He was hailing a cab, which stopped and he got in. Again, I followed him.

The cab was dead silent all the way home. Sherlock sat as close to his door as possible, just staring out the window. I kept my attention fixed on my hands, trying to ignore the high tension in the back of the cab.

After what seemed like ages, the cab pulled up in front of 221B. Sherlock paid the cabbie quickly and jumped out of the car. I got out too and went after him to the sidewalk in front of the outer door.

"Go change and meet me in the main room in five minutes. We need to talk," he _commanded _me as we entered the flat. Under normal circumstances, I would have objected, but his voice had a trace of anxiety to it. He swept off to the main room and I decided to follow his advice, as my clothes were filthy from the alley.

I went up o my room and stripped off my ruined dress, my jewelry, and those bloody ridiculous stilettos. I change into a pair of loose jeans, a soft t-shirt, and slippers. I went into the bathroom, washed off most of the makeup ( my face felt about five pounds lighter) and brushed out my hair, leaving it in soft waves. I glanced in the mirror and smiled; I looked like myself again.

I went down the stairs and into the main room, where I found Sherlock staring into the fire. I took the chair opposite him and we sat in silence for a long time before he spoke.

"That was an incredibly stupid thing to do. You could've been killed."

"It needed to be done. We had to stop the bastard somehow."

"Not by you dying."

"Oh, shut up. You could die on any of your cases, yet you still do what needs to be done," I retorted.

"I go armed and usually with John or Lestrade. Unarmed, alone in a dark alley, you would've died. What the _hell _were you thinking?"

"I knew you'd turn up. That's why I made sure you knew I was going clubbing. I figured you'd realize pretty quickly where I went."

"I knew the minute you left where you were going. You knew I'd turn up. Why?"

The words tumbled out of my mouth. Words I thought I'd never say, but were absolute truth.

"Because I trust you."

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise and understanding of what I was saying. He leaned forward and he was close, oh so close now. He utterly surprised me by closing the gap between us and kissing me softly on the mouth. Even more shocking, I kissed him back. After a minute or two, he pulled away. With visibly great difficulty, he finally managed to speak.

"I love you, Lily. Since the day you proved you were clever and told me off in the morgue at St. Bart's," he finally was able to get out, his face red. I thought back on that day, how I had shouted that he was wrong and to look more carefully. I couldn't believe that he remembered he occasion fondly, but I knew his words were true. So I answered him in the only way I could. I pulled his face back to mine for another kiss.

This one was longer and more intense. It was like fire and ice at the same time. It was like petrichor, the smell of dust after rain, strange and beautiful. I felt like every nerve ending was electrified.

We sank to the floor between the two chairs. I was pressed against a chair and he was practically on top of me. I had my hands in those ridiculous dark curls, and everything felt _right_. He, again, was the one who broke the kiss.

"Do you want to…" he panted, gesturing to his room with his head.

"God, yes," I responded. Really, at that moment, I realized that I wanted nothing more. He jumped up and extended his hand to me. He led me down the hall and into his room, where I had never been before. He leaned into me and kissed me as we fell into the bed. He expertly took off my shirt, while I couldn't get the buttons on his undone fast enough.

He kissed me all over my torso, in places that weren't very pretty, but his soft touch made them beautiful. I affectionately kissed him on the collarbone and he gave a slight sigh of pleasure.

Next off were my jeans and his trousers. He entered me gently, carefully not hurting me at all. Through this, he continued to kiss me and I wound my hands through his curls again, as if to hold him to me forever.

When it was over, he still held me close to him. He stroked my hair and whispered that he loved me. After a while, I heard the deep, even breathing of his sleep. Lying there, wrapped in his arms, I felt safer than I had in a very long time.


	6. Chapter 6: Corpse & Fine Dining

I woke up shortly after dawn to the sound of a phone ringing. _My _phone ringing. I opened my eyes and for a moment, had no idea where I was.

Then I felt the comforting weight of Sherlock's arm over me and remembered what had happened the night before. As much as I hated to do it, I carefully (as not to wake him) pushed his arm off and got up. I grabbed my clothes and hurriedly threw them on and crept out. I sincerely hoped that the flat was empty and that Mrs. Hudson or, God forbid, John wouldn't see me coming out of Sherlock's room half-dressed. It's not that I was ashamed of what happened, mind you, but I really needed time to think things over before people knew. I made my way over to the table and checked my phone. Three missed calls from Molly. I called her number and she picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's Lily. What's going on?"

"Are you okay? You sound strange."

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just had kind of a late night assisting Sherlock with that case." There was a long pause on the other end and just as I was beginning to wonder if she'd hung up, she finally spoke.

"Sorry, anyway, we need you at the hospital within the hour. There's been a funny death and it's a good experience for you to have a look at it and maybe even perform the autopsy."

"Okay, I'll be there soon. See you then." I hung up and sighed. Normally, I'd be thrilled to get to independently perform an autopsy, particularly one with a funny cadaver. But I needed to work out what exactly happened the night before, so for the first time in my life, I didn't want to go to work. I squashed that thought pretty quickly; I couldn't afford to act like some moony-eyed teenager. _Nothing _gets in the way of my work.

I stumbled up to my room to take a shower and put on fresh clothes. So as I was in the shower, I just pondered my situation. Did I _really _just sleep with my flatmate like this was some stupid romantic comedy? Could I _be _more cliché? More importantly, how did I mistake him as gay? I'm usually quite good with reading people, but Christ, how did I miss _that_? This was getting me nowhere, so I shut off the shower and got dressed, pulling my hair back as usual.

I tried to convince myself that I was ready to face the day, but it wasn't working. Coffee, coffee was what I needed. So I went down to the kitchen. As I was pouring myself a travel mug full and screwing on the lid, I was grabbed by the waist and spun around. Luckily, I steadied the mug on the counter just in time. Sherlock kissed me on the forehead and sighed.

"Do you have to go?" Even the sight of him wearing only pajama pants with messy hair wasn't enough to stop me.

"I'm surprised at you! My work is as important to me as yours is to you. Would _you _stay in if someone came by offering you an amazing case?"

"I think I'd ignore it, just this once. Come on…"

"And what would we do all day?" Talk about poor phrasing; he raised his brows at me.

"I've got _several_ ideas. We could talk about murderers," his tone was careful, wheedling.

"Tempting, but no. Molly's offered to let me do an independent autopsy on a 'funny corpse' and I'll be damned if I'm missing _that_."

"Funny corpse?"

"Her words, not mine. She didn't give me any details and I'm already running late, so I'd better get going. See you later." I kissed him on the cheek and turned to leave.

"Mind if I come with you?"

"If you _hurry up _and get dressed." He dashed into his room and emerged fully-dressed minutes later, pulling on his scarf. We went out and hailed a cab to take us to St. Bart's. We went directly to the morgue and as we were about to go through the doors, he grabbed my hand. Well. This was new, but okay. Molly met us as we walked in.

"Lily! She's just in there if you want to start… the examination…" she stuttered and trailed off as she took in the sight of our entwined hands, but quickly recovered her composure, "Let's get started then?"

I agreed and the three of us walked into the autopsy room where the cadaver was already laid out. I didn't understand; she looked much like any other corpse.

"How was she found?" I asked Molly.

"Sitting slumped against the wall of a locked room without anything else in it. The full file's in my bag. Sherlock, if you wouldn't mind?" He left the room and she immediately started talking.

"You and Sherlock, then? When did _that _happen?"

"I don't even know what _this _is. Like, yesterday we were just flatmates but after last night's case… I don't even know. Does he date much?" She laughed, really laughed, for a solid five minutes.

"No, as far as I know, he doesn't date at all." Sherlock walked back in with the file just as she finished.

"Colleen Donahugh, aged 19, school dropout, lived totally alone. Originally from Bristol, came to London a year ago for an unknown reason," he said.

"Thanks for that. Should I begin?" I asked.

"Go ahead," Molly replied, "Sherlock, let's give her some space." He opened his mouth to protest, but after a look from her, he left the room.

"Right, well, I think you'll be good. I've already done the measurements and taken the necessary photographs. If you need anything, I'll be just inside the lab." She left as well. Okay, breathe, it'll be fine.

I picked up the recorder and hit play.

"Examination by Lily Wilson of Colleen Donahugh, age 19, February 22, 2014. Dead for ten hours and has no obvious physical wounds. No signs of sexual assault and no resistance marks on the hands." I paused the tape and took a blood sample. I made the incisions and opened her up.

"No broken ribs. Slight bruising on intestines, stomach is a mottled purple. Heart is swollen to four times its normal size and weighs twice as much as it should. All other organs weigh the proper amount." I paused the tape again and took tissue samples from the cadaver's stomach and heart and put them in dishes to be sent to the lab. I took a urine sample from the bladder, also to be sent off. I also took photos of the stomach, heart, and intestines before sewing her back up. Now, for her head.

"Eyes are normal, no sign of choking or strangulation. No head trauma," another pause as I removed the top of her head and took out her brain, "Brain is normal." I took a sample of that and sent it to the lab before stitching the head back together.

"I suspect poison, results pending." I shut off the tape and sent the samples to the lab. I cleaned up the room and wheeled the cadaver to the cold room. I went back to the lab where Molly and Sherlock were waiting, Molly at a microscope and Sherlock reading the file.

"Is it done?" Molly asked me.

"Yes, but we shouldn't send her off yet. I have a strong suspicion of poison so we need to test the samples." And we did, the three of us, and came to the same conclusion a couple of hours later, based on Sherlock's knowledge of venoms.

"Black Jungle Snake venom, rare, from Brazil. Causes the exact symptoms when ingested internally, though is very slow-acting. It takes about eight hours to work and the victim dies the instant it kicks in," Sherlock said.

"She would've had it in her system and never even known until he died. I'm ruling it a murder," I said, making a note of it.

"Sherlock, if you want the case, it's yours. I'll call Greg and tell him if you're interested," Molly said. He looked at me, looked at the file, and his face lit up.

"Okay, I'll take it. Now, who'd have access to a rare South American venom?" he wondered aloud as he drifted out of the lab. I didn't follow; I needed to be alone.

"Molly, if you don't mind, I'm going to go home and maybe get some sleep."

"No, it's fine. You seem like you could use it after your late night with-_ oh my god_." She grabbed my wrist.

"Calm down, it's not that big of a deal."

"For Sherlock, it is. Listen, he has _never _had a girlfriend. John teases him about it, but it's true." My mouth fell open.

"_I'm _his… first? But he's intelligent, interesting, and good looking; how has he _not _been with anyone?"

"Believe me, I've asked myself that same question. Guess he hasn't been interested." I remembered her telling me she fancied him and winced.

"God, Molly, I didn't realize-"

"Oh, I got over him _ages _ago. I've got Tom now."

"How is he, by the way?" And she was off, just talking about how great he was and I could see that he really loved her. I stifled a yawn (I was tired, okay?). Unfortunately, she noticed,

"Go home. It'll be fine here." I nodded and left the hospital, where I hailed a cab to take me home to Baker Street. Luckily, Sherlock was out investigating, so the flat would be empty and quiet. I went inside and as I was ascending the stairs, my phone beeped and I groaned as I glanced at the new text. It was from Sherlock.

Care to go to dinner with John and Mary? Around six?

-SH

I quickly texted him back.

Sounds good. See you then.

-Lily

And I continued up the stairs and fell into bed, too tired to even remove my shoes.

I woke up at five, having slept for an extraordinarily long time. I needed to get ready, of course, but first, I needed food. I padded down the stairs to the kitchen.

As I was making tea and a ham sandwich, Sherlock came home.

"Hey, how's the case going?" I asked him, taking a bite of my sandwich.

"Incredibly simple. She spent the day with her sister, a zoologist, and was poisoned when they went to lunch. Old romantic grudge, textbook case."

"A bit disappointing though, I assume?"

"God, you have no idea. I think even the idiots from Scotland Yard could've solved it without me."

I had finished my food by this point.

"Well, I'm going to go have a shower. I must look awful."

"Actually, I think you look beautiful."

"Shush. I'll be down in a bit." I left him in the kitchen and went back up to my room. I probably smelled like a mixture of sleep odor, cadaver and chemicals, so I shower would be nice. I took of my clothes and let the hot water run in rivulets down my body, erasing the night before and the day. I washed my hair and body, taking special care to get really clean. Once I got out, I blow-dried my hair into waves and lightly applied makeup. I slipped into a simple dress of black velvet, an indigo wrap, and black heels. I put on small diamond earrings and a single-charmed necklace with a thin silver chain. The image in the mirror made me smile; I looked like myself as there would be no heavy makeup, jewelry, or hair product like the night before.

I went down to the main room, where I found Sherlock waiting for me. He was dashing as always, dressed in all black which best accentuated his creamy pale skin and stunning, stormy eyes.

"Ready to go?" he asked me. I nodded, for if we didn't leave soon, we'd be late meeting John and Mary. We left the flat and got into the cab Sherlock had waiting.

"Where are we going?" I asked him.

"I've made reservations at Angelo's, a really good Italian place. I helped the owner out of a tight spot a while back and he repays me by treating me as a 'special guest' in his restaurant."

"Tight spot? What'd he do?"

"Triple murder charge. Couldn't have done it, as he was busy breaking into a flat at the time. _My _flat, in fact."

"And you forgave him?"

"His case came up when I was in the height of withdrawal and it helped me not to relapse." At this, I finally got a chance to ask the question that'd been burning me for months.

"What happened last time, the night you OD'd?"

He grew so silent that I was afraid he wouldn't answer. After a minute of quiet, he finally answered.

"I couldn't stand John being gone, leaving the flat silent and empty. I've never been the lonely type, but that night it just took me away. Funny, I don't feel alone anymore."

"Well, that's a relief," I said and kissed him lightly. He started to go back for more when the cab stopped outside of the restaurant. We went in and found John waiting for us with a short blonde woman who I assumed to be Mary. To be honest, I didn't think I'd ever seen a couple more suited for each other.

"You must be Lily. It's nice to finally meet you,' she said, extending her hand. I shook it and greeted her as well.

"We should get our table then," Sherlock said and went to the booth where the owner was standing. John leaned over to me and said quietly, so Sherlock wouldn't hear,

"You think you know what this is like for him, but you have no idea. I've lived with him for years and he's never dated anyone in all that time. I swear to God, if you mean to hurt him-"

"I don't," I replied. He was about to respond again when Sherlock came back and John went silent.

"It's just back here,' Sherlock said and began to walk to a nice table in the back. I noticed a man in the corner who was eyeing us, who looked vaguely familiar. But I brushed it off; it _couldn't _be him, not here, not now.

We sat around the table and ordered a bottle of white wine to start with.

"So how'd you two meet?" Mary asked me.

"I work at St. Bart's, with Molly. D'you know her?"

"Yeah, she's great, isn't she? But what happened next?"

"He came into the lab while I was working and happened to mention that he was looking for a flatmate. I was too, so it seemed convenient."

"John, isn't that the same way you met Sherlock?" Mary asked him, and he and Sherlock were off talking about their first days as flatmates. John lamented how he never bought the milk, clearly a long-running joke between them.

I felt eyes on the back of my head and discreetly glanced over to see the man in the corner now flat-out studying us. I looked carefully at his face, and as he turned, I saw the long, jagged scar running down the left side of his face. His hand slipped into his jacket and I leaned forward.

"Sherlock, the big Russian man in the corner is watching us. No, don't turn; his hand's in his jacket and I think he's got a gun." He glanced over and any trace of laughter left is face, leaving a somber mask.

"You need to get out of here. Mary, you as well. Go back to the bathrooms, leave through the window, and run somewhere safe. Don't go home."

Mary and I nodded, got up, and casually walked back to the bathrooms as if nothing was wrong. The Russian began to get up as well.

Once inside the bathroom, we locked and bolted the door. We took off our shoes, as heels are difficult to run in. We could hear heavy footsteps and a chair scraping the floor.

"Where do we go?" Mary asked as she threw open the window. Who lived in this part of the city? I remembered an address, given to me long ago.

"Molly lives just a street away. Come on, he'll be in here soon." We climbed out and into an alley. I led the way as we ran, the restaurant breaking into shouting and chaos behind us. We heard a gunshot and Mary paused in horror.

"Mary, we have to keep moving. We'll call when we get there, I promise." So we pressed on and I scanned the blocks of flats, looking for Molly's building. I found the number she had given me and buzzed her flat.

"Hello?" her voice said.

"It's Lily, let us up! Quickly, please!" the door opened and we shut it behind us, waiting to hear the lock click. We went up to her flat and banged on the door; she opened it and we went inside.

"What's going on?" she asked incredulously. As Mary explained what had happened, I pulled out my phone, dialing Mrs. Hudson's number first.

"Hello, dear, this is a surprise! I-" she began, but I cut her off.

"Baker Street isn't safe. Lock all the doors and windows, turn off all the lights, and get low to the ground. Hide and don't answer the door for anyone."

"But why?"

"I think someone's after Sherlock. They came after us at dinner, but they aren't alone. They'll definitely be watching the building.' I hung up and called Sherlock. I didn't let him speak once he answered.

"Are you alright?" I asked him.

"I'm okay, John as well."

"Who was shot? We heard a gun."

"A mirror was the only thing it hit. It shattered, but no one was hurt. Well, the man was, er, knocked unconscious. Lestrade has him in custody, but he wont be fit for questioning for days. Where are you? John and I will come and get you and Mary."

"D'you know where Molly lives?"

"Yeah. We'll be there soon," he said and hung up. Mary actually cried with relief when I told her John was okay. And within a few minutes, Sherlock and John were buzzed up to the flat. When they were let in, John immediately went to Mary and just held her on the couch, not saying a word. Sherlock stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, before pulling my into a crushingly tight embrace. But he pulled away and studied me.

"How did you know he was Russian?" he asked in a careful tone, "How could you _possibly _know that?" Everyone turned to stare at me.

"He's, um, a friend of my ex-flatmate's. Recognized him by that ugly scar on his face."

"Your _flatmate_," he said, putting extra emphasis on the word, "did he have other friends like this?"

"A fair few. He was a bit of a rough man; I'm glad to be shot of him. Where do we go from here?" I asked, changing the subject away from the man. John was the one who answered.

"I say we pay Mycroft a visit. He's got loads of room and security around his place." Sherlock grimaced at the thought of having to see his brother, but he agreed that that was the safest place.

We thanked Molly and reminded her to keep her door locked in case the men found out we had been there. We quietly snuck out of the flat and got into a cab, which would take us to Mycroft's, and safety.


	7. Chapter 7: Tick-Tock

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry for the late chapter this week, I have final exams. Next week, we're back on schedule, so there will be a new chapter on Monday.

The ride to Mycroft's was long and tense. Inside the cab, the air felt as thick as honey with unanswered questions. What did the Russian want with us? Who sent him? I could practically hear the others' minds screaming for answers. Well, not Sherlock's, who was staring into space with intense concentration, or Mary's, but John's questions were as plain as the nose on his face. Finally, Sherlock called for the cabbie to stop outside a decent-sized home in Kensington. The house was cheerfully decorated, which actually surprised me with the stark contrast to the austere man I had been interrogated by at the hospital. We got out, paid the cabbie, and went to the door. Sherlock held up his hand for us to wait until the cab had sped off.

"It's two houses down, actually. Don't want to be followed." He led us to a house two doors down, which was thoroughly plain and gave off a feeling of coldness and distance. Now this was more like it. He led us around the back garden to a door. He held the knocker and gave three loud knocks, then two soft ones, then three loud again. The door opened to show the imposing figure of Mycroft Holmes, illuminated by a dim hallway chandelier.

"Well, little brother, this is a surprise. A visit? Have they passed a new law?" he said airily, half-joking, half-serious.

"We were attacked at dinner. I need somewhere to think and Baker Street is being watched."

"This is very inconvenient; I'm in the middle of working on a crucial treaty. You'll have to go someplace else."

"Mycroft, don't be an idiot-"John interjected.

"I said no. Goodbye, brother dear." Sherlock's eyes flashed green briefly and I thought he was going to yell at Mycroft, but what happened next shocked me. His entire demeanor changed to pitiful and he looked at Mycroft with an expression of pure desperation.

"Please, Mycroft." Mycroft seemed taken slightly aback, as if this had never been said to him by Sherlock before. His expression softened a bit; he sighed and motioned us inside.

"I have two spare rooms upstairs, just down the hall, first two doors on the right. The lavatory is just across the hall from those. Now, if you _don't mind_, I have important business to attend." And then he disappeared into a room just of the vestibule. John closed the door behind us and triple locked it. I was again surprised by Sherlock when the minute his brother was gone, all pleading vanished from his face and he started softly chuckling to himself.

"What on earth could be funny now?" Mary asked him.

"Just Mycroft. I've been using _that _on him since I was a little kid. All I have to do is give him a bit of groveling and he's a pushover."

"You're a total dick, you know that, right?" John told him, but his eyes were smiling.

"Not denying that one. You go upstairs; I'm going to his library. I need somewhere quiet to think," Sherlock replied and walked down the hall. The rest of us went upstairs, John and Mary taking the first room, I the second. I had just settled into one o the chairs when my phone rang. Blocked number, of course.

"I'm getting impatient, Law," the voice said.

"Hello, Jem, nice to hear from you as well."

"Do you have it?"

"I just need a bit more time. Even Cam hasn't found it yet!"

"I don't CARE about Cam! You have two weeks to get what we need or we pay you another little visit."

"You sent Vor after me, that bumbling idiot. Great job, that. Who's next? Sam? Ija?"

"Ija hasn't been in my service for over two years, but that isn't the point. Next time, I come in person and you should hope to have what I'm looking for." My heart turned to ice as the line went dead.

"Who was that?" asked a voice from the doorway. I turned to see Mary standing there. She came in and sat in the other chair.

"Nobody important." She studied my face and knew.

"It was Jem, wasn't it?"

"How do you know?" I asked in shock.

"You look like you've seen a ghost. You should've left when Ija and I did. Why didn't you?"

"I had, and still have, more to lose if I desert him than if I stay." She understood and seemed sympathetic. Truth is, I needed Jem as much as he needed me.

"What's he making you do?"

"We both know that I can't talk about it."

"Have you considered telling Sh-" she started.

"Have _you_ considered telling John?" She looked as I she had been slapped at my words. I regretted them, as she could no more tell John than I could tell Sherlock.

"That world is behind me now, but you're still wrapped up in it. I'm begging you, let me help you!"

"I can't do that; I've brought you into this enough. Vor would've killed you if he had recognized you at Angelo's!"

"You don't think I know that? I've had a few almost incidents with him over the last couple of years and I just think-"she was interrupted by John.

"Mary? Where are you?" he called from the hall. Mary sighed and got up from her chair.

"I'd better go. We'll talk tomorrow, okay? We'll figure out something."

I remembered the others of Jem's syndicate.

"Vor is inactive, but keep an eye out for Sam. Remember, he's a sniper, so avoid the windows as much as possible."

"Got it. Do you think it'll be safe to go home tomorrow?"

"Probably. Well, you know their code: if the rat doesn't show up within twelve hours, they bail. You and John's place should be safe as well."

She told me goodnight and left. I was getting settled in yet again when I was interrupted, this time by Sherlock. He sat down in front of me and took my hands.

"Tell me everything you can about these men. How did you get mixed up with them?" I hated to lie to him, but he couldn't know the truth.

"I'm not mixed up in anything with them. They were my ex-flatmate's poker buddies. Vor, the Russian, has done time for armed robbery. Sam was in the military. And Jem, my flatmate, was a collector."

"What did he collect?"

"Whatever he could take, like a magpie."

"How did you meet Jem?"

"Same way I met you, through a friend."

"Why did Vor come after us?" What a stupid question.

"I don't know, Jem's a jealous bastard so his friend came after us. I told you, they're bad people!"

He didn't question me farther, just went back to the library. I got up from my chair and settled into the bed. I fell asleep as the two week ticking clock began to count down to zero.


	8. Chapter 8:Pressure

The next afternoon, we went home. Well, we took John and Mary back home first, but not before Sherlock and John did a thorough sweep of the flat. The surrounding area was declared clear by Mycroft's network, but assailants could still be inside, poised to spring. So Mary and I waited outside the building for the 'all clear' text from one of them. She started laughing.

"Funny how they insisted we wait here when each of us could easily take the two of them if we wanted to."

"Well, they don't exactly know that about us and showing _that _might cause them to wonder. Hence, why we listened and left the restaurant 'for our own safety'."

She took a deep breath and began "Lily-"

"I know what you're about to ask and I still can't. You know what Jem's like, completely mad. So drop it."

"Why do you stay with him?" she burst out, "What could possibly be worth it? What has he got on you?"

"You, of all people, know we're not allowed to say. Ija was found out and look what happened to her. Disappeared from the face of the Earth, didn't she?"

"You're right, but if you have to, you _can _ask for help."

"Same to you, if those maniacs ever manage to track you down."

She gave me a warm smile, then my phone buzzed as we saw Sherlock and John leaving the building. I didn't need to check it to know what it said.

"S'okay to go in now, Mary; the building's clear. Sherlock, give me a shout if anything new comes up," john said. Mary bid us goodbye, and they went inside, leaving me and Sherlock alone. Suddenly, a thought struck me.

"God we forgot to tell Mrs. Hudson to remain hidden! She could be out in the open, thinking it's safe!"

Sherlock didn't say a word, just spun me into a kiss. An epic, rom-com, kiss-me-in-the-rain kind of kiss. His coarse lips pressed deeply into mine and his tongue explored my mouth, tasting like the coffee and scones we had eaten at Mycroft's that morning. I could feel his stubble on my jaw as this went on for a full minute, my guilt threatening to eat me alive by the second. Luckily, the driver of Mycroft's car coughed and he pulled away, the two of us gasping for breath. I looked into Sherlock's eyes and saw an intense _need _lurking in them, his pupils blown wide and thinly ringed with that rare oceanic color. He turned away with a sigh and got into the back of the car. Giving the building one last look, I followed him. I don't believe in a deity, but I hoped that there was somehow something that would keep John and Mary safe.

From the building back to Baker Street, he didn't let go of my hand, which, while nice, admittedly made calling Mrs. Hudson difficult. I finally managed to get my phone out of my coat pocket and dialed her number. She picked up on the first ring.

"Lily! Dear, is everyone alright? I've been so worried!"

Ah, there was the guilt again. It was really starting to get annoying.

"We're all fine, the gunman's been taken to Scotland Yard. Sherlock's brother's people, whoever they are, have declared Baker Street safe."

"Ah, so you've met Mycroft then." She said his name the way most people say 'Hitler' or 'dog vomit.'

"Well, I'd already met him the night that…" I trailed off, aware that Sherlock was now keenly listening. She gave a small gasp.

"Oh, what a horrid way to meet a person, even one like _him_."

"We didn't exactly hit it off, but I agree. Anyway, we're almost there, so we can talk at the flat. See you in a bit." We hung up; Sherlock was only silent for a brief moment.

"You didn't tell me you'd met Mycroft before."

"And you didn't tell me you're a dancer, yet here we are."

"_What?_" he spluttered, "No one except my mum knows that, not even Mycroft! How could you possibly-"

"Oh come on, you hold yourself like one. Any idiot could see that, but I guess I cheated a little; I've loved going to the ballet since I was a kid. I met Mycroft the night you OD'd. Notice, he didn't ask who the hell I was when we turned up on his stoop last night."

He seemed mildly surprise, but was spared having to explain his mistake by the car pulling up outside the flat. Mrs. Hudson greeted us and took us into 221B to talk. She'd brought up tea and biscuits and wanted to discuss the events of the night before. After what seemed like hours of talk, she excused herself to go and take her "herbal soother" for her hip. I got up to make us more tea, but found our cupboard to be totally empty.

"Hey, I'm going down to the shops to pick up a few things. You need anything?"

"You," he said in his smooth baritone voice. Well, this was certainly a bit of a change from the Vulcan-like robot I had moved in with (guilty again). Tempting, but no. I just needed to be alone to think about my looming deadine. Emphasis on _dead_.

"_Someone _has to go. Look, why don't you go down to the Yard and interrogate Vor, to take your mind off things?"

"I don't think that'll help _this_," he said and made a suggestive hand gesture. Not expecting him to be so forward, I unwittingly blushed and he grinned like a maniac.

"I promise, I'll be back soon and we can do whatever you like. See you later." I kissed him lightly and, leaving him at the table, went up to my room to change into jeans and a clean shirt along with sneakers. I left the flat and walked to the small shop just down the road. I had just gone over to and begun examining their tea selection when a voice behind me made my skin crawl.

"Nice to see you're focused on your assignment, Law." I sighed and turned to see a tall, muscular man with a sandy blond crew-cut, hard blue eyes, and tanned, scarred face leaning casually against the opposite shelf.

"Shut it, Sam. What, did Jem send his _dog _to stalk me?"

He bristled at the name, but kept calm. I wished to myself the grenade had actually killed him instead of leaving him mutilated.

"Not his dog, love. I'm on duty as well," he said with venom dripping from his tone.

"Still don't like me, then? Feeling's mutual."

"I don't trust your loyalty, _Law. _Or is it _Lily_ now that you're a traitor who got a comrade arrested?" His casual use of my true name made me angry beyond belief.

"It's _Law_, you slimy bastard. I'm surprised Jem still gives your family jobs after your uncle's last assignment went tits up. You lot aren't fit to lick his shoes." Finally, the mention of his family's shame got a rise out of him.

"Listen, you little bitch," he snarled, "you have no idea how important this task of yours is. The big boss won't be happy if his golden girl fails. Don't you get it? Fail, and all our heads are on the chopping block, and there wont be a corner of the Earth you can hide from us in." Instead of being terrified, I was disgusted. Disgusted with Sam, with myself, with this vile world I was trapped in. I wanted out, I really did.

"You know what? Tell Jem to find himself another 'golden girl.' I'm _through._" My words didn't even faze him; he'd heard them often enough before.

"You're irreplaceable to The Man. No one's ever gotten as close to the item he wants as you. Jem loves you, you know," he said bitterly. This wasn't exactly a shock, as seemingly everyone but him knew what Jem was doing: give Sam just enough to keep him loyal, but not too much to keep him coming back begging for more. It was pathetic to see Sam like that, and I felt a fleeting stab of pity for him. Still though, it was useful information and I filed it away before answering him.

"No, he doesn't. Men like him are incapable of love; besides, I _shudder _to think what love from him would be like." According to Ija, he was into some really freaky and twistedly dark things.

"What, you think Holmes is gonna be better? Gonna protect you like some goddamn fairy-tale prince, with a happily fucking ever after? If so, you're even more delusional than I thought," he said, his voice beginning to rise in anger.

"_Will you keep your voice down?_ Anyone could be watching or listening. And I don't expect anything from Holmes; he loves me like Jem loves you, just as a fucking distraction!" Okay, that was a low blow. Before I knew it, he had his brawny forearm against my throat, pressed up against a shelf.

"You callin' me a bleedin' poof? 'Cos I ain't one, ya stupid bird1" he hissed, letting his true Cockney accent slip though, a rarity for him as he spends his time pathetically trying to sound posh for Jem. The pain of my words shone in his eyes.

"I think we understand each other then, Sam," I said, having wrenched out of his grasp, "Now leave me be!"

"Will you finish the task, then?" he asked, calm and upper-crust once again. I sighed in resignation.

"Fine, I'll finish the damn assignment and give Jem what he wants. I've gone in this far already, I might as well see it through till the end. And Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful. Jem's like a spider, he'll drain you into nothing and toss you aside like an insect when he no longer has use of you." He gave me a curt nod and left the shop. Shaken, I bought the tea, milk, and bread and went home.

Sherlock had left me a note saying he'd gone to NSY to see if Vor would talk. He wouldn't, of course. He'd be sprung from his cell by Jem's men by nightfall, and if he talked, he'd turn up dead. I turned on the television and nervously flipped through channels before deciding on _Whitechapel_. Sherlock and John found me there three hours later, shouting abuse at the detectives on the show.

"No, you're an idiot for thinking that! It's _clearly _that guy who's The Ripper; use your brains!" I shouted in frustration and heard a laugh behind me. Not a chuckle, but a true laugh that didn't stop and left a person whooping like a seal. It was john laughing while Sherlock stood by looking confused.

"John, I hardly see what's funny. If they're wrong, they're wrong." This only set him off again.

"You-two-are-_mental_!" he finally managed to get out. I turned off the television and we both stared at him while he composed himself. He stopped after a bit, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Rough day?" Sherlock asked me.

"Ran into an old friend and it just unsettled me a little. What about you two?" They dropped into their chairs with a unanimous groan.

"The Russian's free on some ridiculous thing. Apparently, he wasn't 'handled properly' or something like that," john said, all traces of laughter gone from his face.

"And with him, our one and only case right now," Sherlock finished.

"That's a shame. Care for a cuppa?" Both shook their heads and John checked his phone.

"I'd actually better be off. Work early tomorrow and all." He said goodbye to us and left. Sherlock pulled me down into the chair opposite his and gave me a long, searching kiss.

"Will you keep your promise?" he murmured into my ear. I answered by leading him by the hand back to his bedroom, the anxiety and guilt never leaving me for a moment then or for the next frantic week as the bomb got closer and closer to detonation.


	9. Chapter 9: Jem

For the fourteenth morning in a row, I woke up in a bed that wasn't my own, another sleeping form beside me. _Really? _I thought, _I have to start sleeping in my own room again. _ Well, I hoped I'd get a chance to sleep in my own bed again. It was the dawn of Jem's deadline and honestly, I had no idea what to do. In my search spanning the fortnight, I had discovered something: it didn't exist. The damn item he desperately wanted didn't exist, and I was going to have to explain it to him. If I was lucky, he'd dismiss me in disgust and I'd have to move somewhere awful. Wisconsin, maybe. If I was unlucky… well, Wisconsin would be the least of my worries.

I got up, careful not to disturb Sherlock's sleep, pulling my phone out of my jeans pocket where I had left them hastily on the floor. Ten new messages from Molly. Again, I deleted them without having to read them. I went up to my room, took a shower, fixed my hair, and put on my favorite polka-dotted blouse and skirt. If this was Judgment Day, I might as well greet the devil looking good.

I went down to the kitchen to fix myself breakfast, and found Sherlock waiting at the table for me, his face set like stone. I tried to kiss him, but he turned his face away.

"What's the matter?" I asked him carefully. He couldn't possibly know, or he'd be shouting.

"Molly just called me. Why haven't you shown up at work or answered your phone?"

Oh, just that then. I relaxed internally but kept my face neutral.

"I haven't been feeling very well lately. Honestly, the smell of the morgue would cause me to puke right now. I've just been going to the park near there."

"Not going soft on me, are you?" he said, his voice taking on a teasing lilt.

"No, just this time of year, I guess." I bent down and kissed him, but we were interrupted by his phone buzzing. He checked it and made a noise of impatience.

"Lestrade. A corpse has been found horribly mutilated and apparently, his team isn't getting anywhere with it. I'd better go, but I should be back in an hour or two." He grabbed his greatcoat and scarf and left the flat.

I fixed myself a mug of coffee and toast soldiers, then settled in to await the devil. I made a pot of tea as well for his arrival. The seconds ticked into minutes, and a half-hour had passed before I heard the distinct knock at the door. I stood up straight, put my dishes in the sink, smoothed my hair, and answered the door with a brave face.

On the other side stood two men: Sam, with his heavy duster-style coat clearly there as a guard, and a small, dark-haired man in a sharp suit, his eyes as black and dead as a shark's.

"Good morning, Jem, Sam. Won't you come in?"

"Don't mind if we do," the dark man said. They walked in and Jem sat in Sherlock's chair; I took the other while Sam stood behind Jem.

"If you try anything, Sam will strangle you slowly. Is that clear?" he said, his voice never losing the monotone. That wasn't indicative, however; Jem's moods were like bipolarity on steroids. He could flip like a switch and scream mid-sentence. I feared the monotone more than the screaming, his soft, nonchalant brogue sending shivers down my spine.

"Affirmative." He gave a semblance of a pleasant smile that didn't meet his eyes.

"Law, my dear, have you found it for me?"

Now was the moment I dreaded.

"It doesn't exist, Jem. It never did."

"_What? _You had one job! Tell me, Law, what exactly was the task I gave you to perform? Speak!" he shouted.

"You told me to find Sherlock Holmes' weak spot. But he doesn't have one!"

"Is this infatuation? Are you protecting him?" Jem asked, his voice going deadlysoft again.

"Of course not, I would never-"

"I own you! You were dancing in a _bar _when I found you, and I asked you what you wanted, and you told me 'I want to go to university.' I pulled you out of there! I paid for your schooling! I've given you everything you've ever wanted, and this is how you repay me?"

"Jem, there's nothing I can do, I _told _you-"

"Hmm, my dear, what else? Oh yes, I recall your next request perfectly 'Make the fire look like an accident'. It's because of _me _that you're not in prison for your parents' _oh_-_sooooo_-_unfortunate_ demise! You answer me, _what is it?" _he nearly-hysterically shouted.

"_He has no weak spot!_"

"Of course he does, everyone does but me!"

"Then why couldn't Cam find it? That's why you keep him around, isn't it? To find weak points?"

"Sir, if I may interject, I believe the girl. Though she did get pretty far, didn't she?" Sam said. I couldn't believe he was defending me here.

"Yes, I was _most _curious about that little fact. How did you manage to make him love you? Even Ija couldn't do it, and she can seduce anyone," Jem asked me.

"Because you don't understand him. A lonely, naïve man, and you send him a dominatrix? That's like giving someone morphine for a sore throat. He needed someone softer, more like himself ."

"Yet you still didn't manage to get me what I needed." I was spared answering by Jem's phone buzzing with a new text. He glanced at it and finally gave me a true grin, like the Cheshire Cat's. Terrifying.

"Good news?" I inquired.

"Cam found it."

"But that's impossible! It's not real!" I exclaimed in complete and utter shock.

Jem gave a soft chuckle and looked directly into my eyes. His were now alive and dancing with exuberance.

"It's obvious, isn't it? It's _you_. All along, I was searching and you were right under my nose!" he said, his Dublin accent getting thicker in his excitement.

"What are you going to do to me?" I asked, "Send me away? Reveal me to him?"

"Dear me, Law, dear me. We wouldn't want him to be _angry_ at you. No, we are going to _break him_."

"You mean-"

"I'm sorry, Law, but you have a purpose, and it's time to serve it. We all must do our duty, after all. Now get on your knees."

I walked to the clear center of the room and knelt on the ground. Crying or begging would have no effect on this horrid creature, so I complied.

"Sam, get behind her. You're a better gunman, my dear."

"Right, sir." Sam walked behind me and I felt the cold muzzle of the handgun pressed against the back of my skull.

"I told Sherlock once, long ago, that I would burn him. Threatening his friends wasn't enough, but _you_ might be. Thank you for your service."

I closed my eyes.

_Bang._

AUTHOR'S NOTE: _There will be an epilogue, so don't fret! Also, expect a special treat shortly after that is posted._


	10. Epilogue

_ Sherlock and John found Lily's body an hour later, posed as if she were Snow White in the middle of the floor. They walked in through the front door and froze at the sight for a moment before dashing over and dropping to the ground by her side._

_ "John, help her. You're a bloody doctor, what do we do?"_

_ "I can't-"_

_ "Do it, help her! Please!"_

_ "Sherlock, I'm so sorry, but she's gone."_

_ Sherlock gave a sound John had only heard a time or two in all his years of medical practice. It was the terrible, terrible primal sound of pure human misery. It was like a shard of ice in his heart. _

_ Sherlock didn't cry, or even move. He just held her face, unbroken by the bullet, and stroked her hair while John called the police. _

_ They arrived within a few minutes of his call and put her body up on a stretcher. Scrawled under the cadaver on the floor in her own blood were the words HELLO SHERLOCK. He remained still in his grief after she had been moved away, and it took John and Lestrade to get him up and into the car to go down to the Yard. The crime scene was photographed and taped off, and Sherlock and John were questioned. John answered most of the questions, as Sherlock was still catatonic in his shock. Yes, Mrs. Hudson had been out at the time. No, they didn't know who did it. After a few hours of questioning, they were cleared to leave and John took Sherlock back to his and Mary's flat to stay. When Mary heard the news, she locked herself in their room and sobbed for an hour. John brought his friend to their spare room and tucked him into the bed. He himself poured a drink and sat up in his chair all night._

_ The cadaver was taken to the morgue at St. Bart's, where Molly examined it herself. She did it with even more scrutiny than usual, for Lily had been her friend and protégé. No poison, nothing but a single clean gunshot to the back of the head. She sent the bullet to the ballistics division and continued her exam. She kept her professional demeanor until she found something curious in the lower abdominal region: Lily was pregnant, but it was still miniscule, not more than a bundle of cells. Tears sliding down her nose, she wrote up her autopsy report. She decided not to tell Sherlock about the fetus; if he wanted to know, he could read the report, but Molly didn't want to hurt him more than he had already been hurt. _

_ Mrs. Hudson was the one who contacted Lily's family. Her mother sobbed when she heard of her estranged daughter's murder. The family decided she would be buried in the churchyard in London. The funeral was small, with only her family and few close friends attending. Sherlock did not stand at her grave and weep, but instead resolved to punish the bastards who killed her._

_ For a month, he worked frantically. He poured over the reports, examined everything he could. He had to be forced to eat and drugged to sleep. He had no real leads except… but no, that man had been dead for a long time. So he went on impulse. It was only when he was arrested for beating a totally innocent stranger he thought had something to do with her death that Mycroft intervened._

_ "It's over, Sherlock, you have to stop now. There's nothing more you can do."_

_ "There has to be something! You traitor!"_

_ 'If there is something I could do, Sherlock, for God's sake I'd do it. But there's nothing else, and you're killing yourself by doing this. Please, just stop."_

_ "I can't! This is my fault, so I have to solve this!"_

_ Mycroft's expression softened for a moment._

_ "I will have you locked up in prison if I have to, to keep you safe. Stop, brother mine."_

_ And Sherlock knew Mycroft had spoken true. He stopped his investigation. He shoved all memory of Lily to the farthest, most remote corner of his mind palace and locked her away. He couldn't bear to delete her, but he could keep her out of his conscious mind. His subconscious, however, was another story. She appears in his dreams, though he doesn't know her name or anything about her. He forgets upon waking._

_ He moved back to Baker Street, where Mary and Molly had already cleared out Lily's belongings. His friends are careful not to mention her in front of him, lest he go mad with grief again._

_ Some time later, John and Mary were married. Sherlock served as best man, never knowing the woman who he loved ever existed. _

_ Fin._


	11. Bits and Bobbins: An Author's Letter

**Dearest Readers, **

Hello and a warm, heartfelt thank you to those who've stuck with this from the very beginning. As a special treat for being so loyal and ridiculously awesome, I've put together a notebook that includes: an alternate ending originally written as an April Fool for my friend, the full names of the mentioned members of Jem's network, three character minibiographies, a playlist of songs to go with each chapter, and some miscellaneous notes. The game is on!

**ALTERNATE ENDING TAKING PLACE DIRECTLY AFTER CHAPTER 8**

The gun was cold in my hand, but I wasn't shaking at all. I'd done this many times before, but when it was _him_, it was somehow different. The gun was pressed to the back of his curly dark hair and Sherlock Holmes was on his knees. Unlike most of the targets, his voice was clear when he spoke.

"Well, this is a surprise," he said, "No, it truly is. No one can surprise me, but you… well, bravo."

"Aren't you going to ask the obvious? Who are you really, what do you want, why are you doing this?"

He turned his head slightly to the left; I kept the gun pressed to it.

"Why bother? More importantly, how did I miss _this_?"

"Sorry, sweetheart, but you only saw what I wanted you to see."

Well, I'd found what Jem wanted: Sherlock's file drive, containing information. _Vital _information that he had stolen when he stole the drive from Jem. It had been hidden within the frame of his poster of the periodic table, and now that I had it, he had to be disposed of. His brilliant mind catalogues everything and now held the classified information, so he couldn't be allowed to continue for fear that he might share it.

"John's right behind me, you know," he said. Liar. We were in an abandoned textile mill in the east end, while John was having a drink with Sam, an old army buddy, in The City. I decided to humor him.

"Oh wow, you know, I _totally _forgot about john. I bet he'll come dashing in to rescue you like an obedient dog any second now. But in the meantime, any last words?"

"Just a question: why now? Any time in the last months, why did you bring me here, today?"

""That last time in your bedroom, I asked you if you had anything you'd never told anyone before. Your eyes flicked up briefly to that poster before answering with a tedious story about your childhood mutt. Simply put, you're no longer useful to us."

"Why not just shoot me in the flat, in my sleep?" He was stalling now, desperately trying to buy time.

"I was told to bring you here by my employer. He's going to be _so _pleased; he's coming to visit later tonight." The flash of pure pain was clear in his eyes and I smirked.

"Who is he?'

"Jem, who you stole the drive from. He was hired to keep it safe and when you unwittingly bought the Lucky Cat it was in, stupid shopkeeper, well, he had to have it back. The old bat was disposed of after Jem beat who had bought it out of her. He sent me to find it because I could get close enough to you to figure it out. I assume you realized the waving arm was heavier than it should be?"

"Of course. Everything you said…" he trailed off. For a moment, I felt a bit of pity for him.

"Was exactly who I needed to be. When our big boss said you had a hero complex, I didn't think it'd be this big. That's enough now, Mr. Holmes; it's time. Goodbye."

Sherlock closed his turquoise eyes, his face like stone. I made sure the gun was nice and tight against his head, then pulled the trigger. The blast echoed around the empty mill as Sherlock Holmes tumbled to the ground, his face blank and bloody. Knowing him, I checked him very carefully for any sign of life. By the blood and brain splatter, as well as the lack of pulse and breath, he was dead. Properly dead, this time. Two figures walked down the stairs from the former owner's office upstairs.

"That took _forever, _Lily, didn't I tell you not to play with your food before you et it?' Jem asked lightly before pulling me into a fevered embrace.

The tall man with the umbrella cleared his throat and we broke apart.

"Is it done? Is the drive… recovered?" he asked. I pulled the drive out of my pocket and handed the golden object to him, which he tucked away.

"The money, Holmes, give it to us. We had a deal," Jem said. Mycroft handed over his briefcase.

"As promised, one million pounds."

"You swore it'd be _two _million," Jem said, his greedy eyes narrowing.

"It would've been, if you hadn't lost it. Because of your foolish mistake, my brother lies dead in a decrepit old factory. Take the million and get out of my sight."

Jem's lips curled into a twisted, cruel grin.

"Feeling sentimental, Holmes?"

"It was a mater of national security; one man is worth the lives of many. I only wish it'd been someone else." He knelt by his brother's dead form and we took that as our cue to leave. Jem picked up the case and we started to leave when Mycroft called from behind us,

"Oh, and if you're ever heard of in Britain again, I will be _most _displeased." We nodded and left the mill. I laced my hand through Jem's and hailed a cab to take us to his flat. My things had already been moved there from 221B by a few of Jem's lackeys. However, they left enough behind to make it look as if I'd been taken. Sam and Vor would meet us at the flat in an hour and we'd leave Britain forever, under new names. Jem kissed me inside the cab, his mouth hungry, possessive. Even Sam didn't really know about us, which was good as far as keeping him loyal to Jem. If he thought he stood a chance, he'd stay as a valuable ally.

"Where do you want to go? I'm thinking New York," he asked me.

"Sounds great. Will I be able to have my job? I do love the corpse work."

"Should be simple enough to make your idea impenetrable. _Anything_ for you after getting us out of that mess."

Jem thinks he holds all the power, but he's so very wrong. He's taking me to New York, would do anything for me, and he's not even the first. _Sherlock Holmes _revealed his deepest secrets to me. And I have things Jem will never know. One is Mary's location; if she wants out, I won't stop her. Another is what I plan to do in New York. You see, Ija is there and is going to help me leave Jem forever. Since I'm the one who makes up identities, mine would be easy enough to change twice. I'll have my money, my best friend, and my freedom. They will never find me, but I won't turn them in unless they threaten me, Ija, or even Mary if her position is compromised. I'll allow them to continue with their foul existence.

In a game of chess, the Queen always wins.

_Fin._

**Jem's Spiderweb**

_Jem- _James Eoin Moriarty

_Law- _Lily Anne Wilson

_Sam- _Sebastian Andrew Moran

_Ija- _Irene Jane Adler

_Cam- _Charles Augustus Magnussen

_Vor- _Vladimir Olaf Rudkus

*_Mem- _Mary Elizabeth Morstan

*though she is never referred to as such in the story

**Minibiographies **

_**Name:**_ Vladimir Olaf Rudkus, alias Vor

_**DOB:**_ 7th December 1983

_**Birthplace:**_ Grozny, Chechen Republic, Russia

_**Occupation:**_ Works for Jem

_**Former occupation:**_ Factory worker

_**Fun Facts:**_

-Has a large scar on his face from a knife fight with his older sister

-Skilled in hand-to-hand combat, skiing, marksmanship, technology

-Joined Jem's network after Jem helped him escape repercussions for wiring the Mob's bank accounts

_**Name: **_Charles Augustus Magussen, alias Cam

_**DOB: **_6th April 1964

_**Birthplace: **_Copenhagen, Denmark

_**Occupation: **_A CEO in the magazine industry and a known associate of Jem's

_**Former Occupation: **_Freelance journalist

_**Fun Facts:**_

-Is known as the King of Blackmail

-Extremely intelligent, ruthless, manipulative and dangerous

-Joined Jem with a mutual agreement that London isn't big enough for two criminal kings, so they are now business partners

_**Name: **_Sebastian Andrew Moran, alias Sam

_**DOB: **_2nd July 1977

_**Birthplace: **_Whitechapel, London, England

_**Occupation: **_Jem's right-hand man

_**Former Occupation: **_Military Sniper

_**Fun Facts:**_

-Is horribly scarred from an incident involving a grenade in Afghanistan

-Skilled in all military technologies, but particularly sharpshooting

-Joined Jem of his own free will. He has an obsessive infatuation with him.

**Playlist by Chapter: The Breaking Point**

**01: **_I've Just Seen a Face _by The Beatles

**02:** _I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends _by The White Stripes

**03:** _Trust Me _by The Fray

**04:** _Needle in the Dark _by Passenger

**05:** _Fall For You _by Secondhand Serenade

**06:** _Russian Roulette _by Rihanna

**07:** _Sympathy for the Devil _by The Rolling Stones

**08:** _Under Pressure _by David Bowie

**09:** _In the End _by Linkin Park

**Bonus Track:** _Fidelity _by Regina Spektor

**An Author's Collection of Notes, Thoughts, and Fun Facts**

Lily's original name was Rose, then Leah.

In the original first draft, Lily was a botanist with a vast knowledge of poisonous plants who moved into 221C. She was also Moriarty's girlfriend.

Extensive research was performed on autopsy procedure, heroin overdose symptoms, legally obtained rohypnol, and pregnancy development, among other things. In other words, my Google history makes me look like a psycho.

I am the proud owner of Lily's ceramic cat statue

Lily was originally completely innocent and was, in fact, simply a bystander casualty in Jem's mad quest for a broken Sherlock, but I decided she would be boring that way.

**Again, a huge thank you for reading and I hope you continue to read my stories. **

**Love, Rosethorn18.**


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